


Offense Taken

by anexcessoffeels (headbuttingbears)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark, M/M, Prison, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:11:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7021792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headbuttingbears/pseuds/anexcessoffeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frederick Chilton goes to prison and has a difficult time deciding what exactly he hates the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Offense Taken

**Author's Note:**

> AU to season 2. Sort of an "x things fic" in disguise.
> 
> I wrote this back in 2014 and only recently found it while digging around for something else, so I figured I'd clean it up and post it.
> 
> I'm sure the blame, as usual, is on Jenny.

After a year of continuous additions and revisions to his mental list, struggling to decide what exactly was the worst part of the whole nightmarish situation, Frederick finally reached a conclusion.

It was the recycled air.

 

For a while the top spot was constantly in contention; something new found its way onto the list daily. Initially it was the insanity of the trial happening at all, then it was the media response - _Head-shrinker Shrinks Heads?_ God Almighty but if anyone deserved to be strung up in public it was Freddie Lounds for her terrible clickbaity wordplay.

Being denied bail also made the list because it meant his last private shower was in Will Graham's chipped porcelain tub with its terrible water pressure and hard water stains. His parents disowning him made a strong showing but never broke top ten, which he supposed was very sad commentary on the state of his life. The rest of the trial was full of so many petty injustices and frustrations that they blurred together; by the end of it all he felt numb and none of it cracked the top twenty, although he found Alana Bloom's testimony for the prosecution hurtful. He'd thought they were _colleagues_.

Cavity searches were _definitely_ in the top five, and then there was whatever off-brand detergent they used on the prison clothes. It gave him a rash for the first couple of weeks. Not enough that he was stuck in a ten by six white cube made out of poured concrete, stewing under harsh fluorescent lighting most of his waking hours, but he had to itch hellishly as well. That had been aggravating enough at least for third place until his body gave up and simply stopped being allergic to it, and it was bumped down the list by something worse.

 _Terrible_ wasn't a strong enough word for how bad the food was. It was worse than anything he'd ever eaten in a hospital, but here he had no options whatsoever. Thanks to being in Ad Seg, he couldn't trade with anyone, nor could he send it back and hope for anything as simple as a microwaved baked potato, which he'd long thought was an impossible dish to fuck up. In prison nothing was fresh, everything either too salty or too sweet; he could feel his arteries hardening three times a day. He either ate or he starved and was then threatened with force-feeding. Consequently, though his appetite for the first month was almost nonexistent, he still put on weight - insult added to egregious injury. There was nothing more depressing or stereotypical than doing push-ups in prison and he resented the entire exercise on principal alone. It was _tacky_. Frederick had never been tacky, no matter what Hannibal insinuated. Food, exercise, food, exercise - for a while they alternated between spots three and four on a regular basis.

Coming in for a while at a solid (and appropriate) number two, the cherry on top of the entire shit-sundae: the attention he attracted from the guards. On a rational level he got it - if any of what people had said about him was true, then he'd be quite the novelty. A cannibalistic serial killer who used to run the state insane asylum? Of course everyone wanted to gawk, it didn't get any better than that.

But only half of that description was true where Frederick was concerned, and it wasn't the half that mattered. Not to the gawkers, anyway.

"Wow, Doc, maybe I should hang on to this," said Davini, shaking the juice box before the tiny reinforced Plexiglas window in the door. Lunch time. "You're looking a little pudgy. Isn't he, Marks?"

The other guard peeked in over Davini's shoulder, squinting across the room at Frederick. "Like a Butterball turkey."

Frederick, of course, said nothing. He knew better by now.

"See, I never figured people for being a lean meat," Davini continued. "Aren't they more like pork? Although I guess pork can be lean. What's your expert opinion, Doc? As a - what's the word - _connoisseur_?"

He would not rise to the bait. He knew what happened if he did while Marks was around.

"Nothing to say for a change?" Davini frowned. "Must be weak from hunger." The door rattled as the slot in the door opened, lunch tray appearing. "There you go, little guy. I know it's not the kiddie tartar you're used to, but it's the best we've got."

Every day. Every day the guards would hassle him. Initially he'd thought Administrative Segregation would be preferable to being tossed into the shark tank that was gen pop, but he didn't know anymore. Every day a CO would give him grief; they were likely as bored as he was. There were three in particular he disliked: Davini with his constant stream of irritating chatter; his partner, Marks, who jumped on any excuse to hit him with his baton - did he think Frederick ate his nephew or something?

But the worst of the lot was undoubtedly Vassar. He didn't talk to Frederick more than he had to, didn't mock him or beat him out of turn or treat him too roughly, but he had a certain look. Frederick could always feel his eyes on him, could _feel_ him watching him with a little smile on his face. It was unnerving, and it took him a while to remember what it reminded him of.

Hannibal in his foyer, smiling down at him. _Hello, Frederick._ That mask of politeness straining to cover something monstrous. Vassar had that same look, even the same build - tall, vaguely Euro-trashy, obviously capable of dismantling Frederick in a fight.

Eventually he decided absolutely and without a doubt that the third worst thing about being in prison was the perpetual sense of insecurity. The new fourth was boredom, but third was never feeling safe. Not in his cell, and certainly not outside it. Not in the hallway, _definitely_ not in the shower. Frederick had never pictured himself in state-issued flip-flops on beige tile, showering under another man's open supervision, shivering the whole time, but now, incredibly, he did it on a regular basis. Twice a week he shuffled to the shower room with his towel and his soap on a rope, shivering for reasons beyond the cold. Wondering if that day would be The Day, wondering if he'd fight it like Andy Dufresne in _Shawshank Redemption_ or if he'd just take it. There was a malleable quality to his nature, he knew that; it was how he'd survived Gideon. Surely whatever happened to him now couldn't be worse than that, no matter how much he dreaded it.

Turned out The Day didn't happen in the showers. It happened _after_ the showers, after he'd scrubbed himself clean one Tuesday just before lunch. He wasn't sure who was responsible for deciding his schedule, but if he had his way he'd have gone for a dip somewhere closer to mid-afternoon. More leisurely then. But Frederick didn't have his way at all anymore. People, it appeared, had their way with him.

So the second worst thing out of all the worst things, the biggest shit God took on his life, was the sensation of Vassar's breath on the back of his neck. An irregular volcanic chugging like the guard was a human freight train as he pounded away at him. Frederick always felt like he'd been hit by one afterwards.

Really though, if he were being completely honest, it was a four-way tie on the list. A dead heat between Vassar's breath and the great horking sound he made when he spit in his hand to slick up his dick; the way his fingers dug into Frederick's soft hip as he fucked him, and how those same fingers would tangle in Frederick's hair as he shoved Frederick's bloodied face down into his pillow. He _had_ fought after all, at least the first few times. Apparently that's what he did when he was cornered and there was no chloroform on hand, nowhere forest to run and hide in like a scared rabbit. He didn't get much for his effort - a broken nose here, some bruised ribs there. It took laughably little for Vassar to subdue him, and in the end they both knew his struggles were largely symbolic.

None of the guards ever did anything or made any reference to it, though the blinking red light next to the glossy black eye of the ceiling camera in his cell never dimmed. The prisoners might hoot at him a bit once Vassar was gone, but the row was silent while it happened, giving no sign whatsoever that they heard Frederick's cries.

It never lasted long. Vassar didn't waste time, and he didn't linger, he just… Looked. And took. Like some fucked up Caesar. _Vidi, vici, veni_. Even Gideon had drawn the whole nasty business out, he thought idly, lying on his side on his hard prison bed. Abel had made it so personal, had talked to him while he had his hands in Frederick's guts. At least Vassar didn't do that.

He moved gingerly to lie on the floor, unwilling tolinger in the scene of the crimeanother second, disgusted that he was rationalizing anyof it. That he had - however inadvertently - made an excuse for the person who… Frederick shuddered, hair still damp from the shower. It was always a handful of degrees too cold in his cell, in the whole prison. He blamed the HVAC that had doubtless been installed at the lowest bid. The air was always too cold, too stale, and the _smell_ \- It wasn't just the air. It was on him. It was prison-issue soap, and prison-issue detergent, and _Vassar_ all over him.

Frederick dragged himself to his feet, poking at his split lip with his tongue - _just_ a split lip for a change, he'd gotten off light compared to last week. He wouldn't pretend Vassar cared, wanted to go easy on him. Not after one of the nurses had demonstrated obvious curiosity over his black eye.

"He's in solitary confinement and he has almost no furniture. What happened? Did he trip and fall on his fist like a toddler?"

A split lip was explainable. A black eye, a concussion - those were trickier. Injuries like those drew attention, led to antiseptic wipes and paperwork and a day in the hospital wing where the air smelt even worse, harsh and chemical and made his stomach roll. They might despise him, but they'd put in the old college try at keeping him alive. He had quite a few life sentences to serve.

Instead of wailing _why me_ or cursing Miriam Lass's poor aim, Frederick revised his list yet again as he hunched over his stainless steel toilet.Using the water and his soap on a rope to wash his hands,he strove to recapture some of the cleanliness he'd felt maybe half an hour ago, when he'd been fresh out of the shower. Fussy as always with his hygiene, and with his thinking: it wasn't the air quality that was the worst aspect of his life now. That wasn't specific enough.

No, it was the smell.


End file.
